President Brenneman paused, then held up his hand to quell the sudden surge of voices from the crowd of reporters standing before him. “I’d like to take this opportunity to personally thank President Chirac and Prime Minister Berlusconi for accepting my invitation, and for working as hard as they have to make this goal a reality. The agreement that has been brokered here today is the direct result of their commitment to the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty and its intended purpose: to render the threat of nuclear war a thing of the past, and to make the world a safer place for future generations. Now I’d like to step aside and let them tell you more about the specific implementations that are scheduled to occur…”
As she surveyed the scene, Jodie Rivers shook her head and thought, This is insane. Despite the fact that the guest list had been kept to a minimum and carefully screened, the area bordering the waterfront was packed by more than 200 people, each and every one of whom, in her eyes, was a potential threat.
The three heads of state were standing on an elevated podium perhaps 50 feet wide and 20 feet deep. President Brenneman was moving aside to give the French ambassador room as he stepped up to introduce President Chirac. Although there were large numbers of Diplomatic Security and Secret Service agents both on and around the podium, Rivers was well aware that this was a huge security risk. As a result, her eyes never left the stage, even when she flipped open her ringing cell phone and lifted it to her ear. She definitely didn’t appreciate the interruption.
“Agent Rivers? This is Director Landrieu.”
She recognized the urgency in his voice immediately, and felt suddenly cold. “Yes, sir.”
“Let me start by saying this is a four-way line. You’re talking to Deputy Directors McCabe and Susskind as well. Listen carefully. We have some information that puts Vanderveen in the city with an Improvised Explosive Device. I can’t give you better than 90 percent on that, but it was enough to put the wheels in motion, and I don’t need to tell you who the target is.”
Dear God, she thought. Her worst nightmare was coming true, and she had to force herself to pay attention.
“…Rivers? Are you still with me?”
“Yes, sir. Go ahead.”
“You’re looking for a white Ford van, commercial type, probably an Econoline. We don’t have a plate number or a name for you yet, but we’re only a couple of minutes away, so keep your line open.”
“What about the—”
“Jodie.” It was a new voice, and one she recognized immediately. “AIC Storey has already been alerted. We’re gonna keep the question-and-answer session with the press pool going as long as we can without arousing any suspicion, okay? We finally got through to the people in Norfolk…Under the name of Timothy Nichols, Vanderveen took possession of forty crates at a total weight of just over 3,000 pounds less than two weeks ago.”
Her eyes went wide at the numbers. “Jesus, the city is packed—”
When he cut back in, McCabe’s voice had the clear ring of authority. “Listen to me, Jodie: Your only concern is for the president, okay? You have that waterfront locked down, I’ve seen it myself. There’s nothing Vanderveen can do to you there unless he’s suicidal, and the general consensus, the hope, is that he isn’t. Normally we’d move the president as fast and far as possible, but that’s not going to work in this case. So we’ll keep him at the marina for now; Storey knows what to do, just follow his lead. As soon as I get off here, I’m headed to your location.”
Yet another voice, coming fast before she could respond: “Agent Rivers, this is Emily Susskind. HRT is already up and running. They’re fanning out around the area, and some are in plainclothes, okay? You need to get that to your observers as soon as possible. I don’t want my people getting shot by mistake.”
She was nodding to herself as the instructions came fast over the phone. “Got it.”
Then, from Deputy Director Susskind: “Hold on.” Over the sounds of the crowd around her, Rivers heard static and voices raised in excitement. It seemed like minutes later when McCabe came on and said, “Got a name, Jodie. Claude Bidault, French national. The vehicle was registered in Virginia less than a month ago. Plate number is…RND-1911. Ready for a description?”
“Go.”
“Black hair and brown eyes. He might have a beard, but that’s not 100 percent. A little heavier than Vanderveen, at about 200 pounds. We’re not sure how he’s doing that; padding, maybe. Same height, of course. There’s nothing he could do there.”
“I’ll get it out to my observers.” Rivers was a little bit frantic now. “Sir, I have to move.”
“I know.” McCabe’s voice was tense over the line. “Get to it, Jodie.”
Ryan had been on the street for two-and-a-half hours. Nothing so far had grabbed his attention, although he had to remind himself that Vanderveen wasn’t exactly going out of his way to appear conspicuous.
There had been nothing planned out or expedient in his route; he had headed north from 7th and Maine, scanning faces and checking vehicles along the way. There wasn’t much he could do other than to look through the windows and drop down to visually inspect the undercarriages, and his strange behavior had earned him some curious glances, as well as a few fearful ones.
He recognized the futility of his search, but there was one over-riding fact that bothered him more than anything else: there was no feasible way to detonate a bomb by command wire on a crowded city street, and a timer wasn’t practical, either, even if Vanderveen had somehow managed to get hold of the Secret Service’s list of scheduled movements.
In other words, the only realistic way for Vanderveen to succeed was by remote detonation, which meant that he would be close by in an overwatch position. Kealey knew the man well enough to know that he would detonate the device regardless of whether the president was in target range; the public would believe it because of what they had seen him do to the Kennedy-Warren on national television, but proof enough for Ryan was the raised scar that resided an inch to the right of his own sternum.
He stayed on 7th until the National Air and Space Museum appeared on his right, then crossed the street onto the wide open space of the Mall. Heading northwest over the grass, with the dome of the Capitol Building framed high at his back, he smiled at the excited noises coming from a group of schoolchildren who were lined up at the glass doors to the Smithsonian. The smile soon faded, though, as he was too tightly wound to share in their enthusiasm. For all he knew, their bus might be passing Vanderveen’s position on its way back to their school…
He pushed the thought from his mind as he came up on 12th Street. It was better not to think about it. When he heard his cell phone ringing, he was grateful for the distraction, but not for long. “Ryan, it’s Harper.”
“John, listen—”
“No time, Ryan.”
He caught the urgency just as Rivers had done less than a minute earlier, and fell silent immediately.
Harper continued: “Naomi turned out to be lucky, after all. Our man has a driver’s license and a French passport in the name of Claude Bidault. The passport is real, but the actual owner reported it lost six months earlier while on vacation in Crete. Got that?”
“Yeah. Keep going.”
“Susskind finally hooked up with this guy Thompson in Norfolk. Using the Nichols ID, Vanderveen picked up 3,000 pounds’ worth of material at NIT exactly eight days ago. The arrogant bastard walked right under our noses twice at the same port…Anyway, he has a vehicle that we can’t account for. It’s a Ford Econoline van, white, maybe with a ladder rack on top.”
Ryan was already running. Standing on 12th when the phone rang, he had taken two long looks either way down the street, then decided to go north, for no particular reason he could think of. Harper’s voice seemed to bounce at his ear as he dodged the heavy crowds of pedestrians, most of whom were people leaving work for a quick lunch. Some of them shot him angry looks or curses as he pushed through the throngs, and the whole time the deputy director’s words
were hitting him with the force of a sledgehammer: “…and Virginia tags, Ryan, RND-1911. HRT is moving out in plain-clothes, but they—”
“Tell them to stay north of the Mall.” His mind was moving in a blur, trying to recall a white Ford van, but…No, he hadn’t seen one. He was sure of it. He said again, “North of the Mall, John. That’s where he’s gotta be. What’s happening at the marina?”
“That whole area is locked down tight. They doubled up on the barriers, and the CAT team is moving into place,” Harper said, referring to the Secret Service’s Counter Assault Team, a highly secretive group that managed to keep a low profile, despite the fact that they accompanied the president wherever he went. “They’ve been able to keep it pretty quiet so far.”
“That won’t last,” Ryan said, already breathing hard from the exertion of a full-blown sprint. He was passing cars in a flash, and there was a white van right there…But no, it was a Chevy. He didn’t break stride, racing past the parked vehicle as a number of pedestrians turned to gawk in his wake. He was scanning faces, too, looking for anyone who might resemble the description that Harper had just given him.
He made a quick decision. “Can’t walk and talk, John. Gotta go.”
“No, Ryan, WAIT—”
He cut the connection and jammed the phone into his pocket, slowing down for a second to feel for the Beretta and get a long look both left and right down Constitution Avenue.
Nothing. He stayed straight on 12th, running hard.
Jeff Storey, the agent in charge of the president’s detail, was floored by the message that he had just received. A terrorist, in the city with a van full of fucking explosives, and they wanted him to sit tight? It was beyond belief…
Storey had been a special agent in the Secret Service for nearly sixteen years, with the last four spent on the president’s detail, and the last two of those four in charge of that detail. He looked around nervously. Jesus Christ, the assistant director had said 3,000 pounds. The concrete bollards would stop the van itself, but the kill radius for that kind of weight was at least…what? He tried to remember. It had to be at least 1,500 feet, and from his position on the podium, Storey could easily make out the medium-sized print on the barriers where 6th turned into Maine. Sit tight, my ass, he thought. We’re sitting ducks.
Standing there on the podium, listening to the French ambassador lead up to the introduction of President Chirac, thinking about how easy it would be for a van to come barrelling down that street, Jeff Storey came to a decision. He was the one in charge of the president’s detail, not Joshua fucking McCabe, and there was no way that he was going to see the president dead on his watch. In sixteen years with the Secret Service he had never found the need to draw his weapon on the job, but he did so now. He was standing on the podium with a group of diplomats and aides, blending into the background with the others behind the three heads of state when he convinced himself it was time to act. As the Sig 228 came up and out of his holster, the eyes of the two agents standing next to him went wide, and there was no turning back.
The AIC lifted his sleeve to his mouth and said, in a calm but forceful tone, the words that caused the world to come crashing down around him: “Storey to detail! Hurricane! I repeat, Hurricane!”
Moving behind the press pool with two junior agents in tow, Jodie Rivers looked up in surprise at the sudden movement on the podium. Her surprise quickly turned to horror, however, when she saw that Storey had grabbed the president roughly, and was pulling him back as the other agents surrounded the pair with their weapons out. The French president and his aides were looking on with confusion clear in their faces, as was the Italian prime minister, when the DSS agents assigned to each man came crashing onto the stage, following the lead of Storey and his detail.
The reporters and photographers on the gangplank were in a frenzy at the scene, cameras flashing everywhere as the people in the press pool tried to make sense of the situation. Their screamed questions went unanswered as a line of agents formed to block the president’s predetermined escape route, but the metal barriers came crashing down as the media let go of the last shreds of decorum. The thin line of agents was quickly overrun by the huge crowd of reporters and cameramen.
Rivers couldn’t believe what she was seeing. This was exactly why McCabe had ordered Storey not to do anything rash. “What the hell is he DOING!” she screamed, before realizing that the two junior agents standing next to her had even less of a clue than she did.
Back in the CT watch center, McCabe, Susskind, Landrieu, and Harper were also staring in horrified disbelief at the scene that was playing out live on MSNBC.
McCabe was the first to lose it, his face flushing a very deep red. “This is exactly why I told him to sit tight!” he shouted, unconsciously giving voice to the thoughts of Jodie Rivers. “We need to cut that feed right now!”
Harper’s face was pale, and he was shaking his head. “It’s too late. If Vanderveen saw that, he has nothing to lose by blowing it.”
“Fuck!” McCabe slammed a closed fist down onto the table in front of him. A moment of clarity cut through the reactionary anger, and he suddenly realized that his career with the Service was almost certainly over, not to mention the fact that a lot of people were probably about to lose their lives. “FUCK!”
Ryan crossed the street when he reached the Pavilion at the Old Post Office, cutting under the arches of the Ariel Rios Federal Building and breaking into a wide open space less than 100 meters away from the Ronald Reagan International Trade Center. He ran north as 13th Street loomed ahead, and then found himself facing the pink-gray granite expanse of Freedom Plaza. He was breathing hard and there was a painful stitch in his side, but he kept his head up as his eyes scoured the line of cars in front of the National Theatre.
There. He knew immediately that it was the right one, even though the vehicle didn’t have a ladder rack and he couldn’t tell for sure if it was a Ford from the side. He knew because the van was sitting low to the ground, much lower than it should have been. Whatever that vehicle was carrying, it definitely wasn’t light.
Then he was running again, despite the fact that Vanderveen was probably just waiting for him to get closer to the van before blowing it. Something inside Ryan’s head told him that he should be feeling fear, that there was definite cause for it, but he couldn’t lock on to any single emotion. He only knew that he had to get to that van as soon as possible.
Although he didn’t make a conscious effort to do so, his right hand went back to the holster and came up with the pistol. It turned out to be a bad move; Vanderveen wasn’t anywhere in sight, but there were a lot of people walking around, and a lot of people eating lunch on the benches around the fountain. One woman saw the gun in his hand and began to scream, and then there were a lot of screams…
Trooper 1st Class Jared Howson couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He was about 50 meters east of the Ford on Pennsylvania when he saw a distant figure with what looked like a gun in his hand, racing through a crowd of cowering pedestrians.
Howson just stared for about ten seconds before he remembered that he was a police officer, and had a gun of his own. He pulled the standard-issue Glock 17 out of its holster and sprinted back down the street toward the van, not once taking his eyes off the other man or the weapon he was holding.
Although Jeff Storey had undeniably broken standing orders, he was still a Secret Service agent with sixteen years of experience, and knew that, given the current situation, he would be a lot better off on the water than he would on the streets. Still surrounded by the members of his detail, he dragged President Brenneman, who was still too shocked to be angry, down the dock as a number of agents peeled off to cover their movements.
The AIC grabbed a UHF radio from one of his men. It was already set to Channel 4, their dedicated maritime link. “Storey to Coast Guard cutter Alder, Storey to Alder. I need immediate escort for Boater at LZ number 3. Do you copy?”
Coming back a split second l
ater: “Storey, this is Alder. Roger that, we’re two minutes out, over.”
“Two fuckin’ minutes,” Storey mumbled. “Unbelievable.” He put in a second hurried call for transport at the designated landing zone, which was on the southern tip of the East Potomac Golf Club, as well as asking for additional helicopter support, never breaking stride as he pulled the president toward a turbocharged motorboat manned by USSS personnel less than 50 feet away. Behind them, the chaos continued to build as some of the reporters, finally realizing that they might actually be in danger themselves, began to trample each other in their rush to get away from the waterfront.
The DS agents for the French and Italian delegations, unaware of the specific threat, bundled their respective principals into armor-plated limousines and screamed at the drivers to move. The heavy vehicles pulled away from the curb at a surprising rate of speed, minus motorcycle outriders, following Maine onto 12th Street, and then heading north toward Pennsylvania Avenue and the safety of the White House.
Ryan was amazed when he reached the van and it was still intact. He didn’t know where Vanderveen was, but knew the man was definitely somewhere in the area, and had to be watching him at that very moment. He arrived at a dead sprint, pulling up short and slamming his left elbow into the glass on the passenger side.
A wave of pain shot up his arm, but the safety glass gave way immediately. Another three judicious blows pushed the crumpled sheet of glass onto the passenger seat. He was reaching to unlock the door from the inside when a voice yelled, “HOLD IT!”
He whipped his head around to see a young police officer pointing a heavy black pistol at his chest. The adrenaline coursing through his body, Ryan’s mind took in the scene at the speed of light: Metro PD uniform, two chevrons on the sleeve, young kid, scared eyes, and shaky hands on the gun. It all combined to give him a very bad feeling.
Andrew Britton Bundle Page 36
